


I Had A Dream I Had A Tongue

by AltraViolet



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Toys, feelings of inadequecy, pretty fluffy tho, weird kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 09:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20486786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltraViolet/pseuds/AltraViolet
Summary: Bluestreak attends one of Whirl's secret fight sessions in the belly of the Lost Light, hoping to catch Hot Spot's attention...Three short wip-y, pwp-y ficlets exploring Bluestreak/Hot Spot and Cybertronian biology('s impact on one's self-worth).





	1. The Field Chaser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One of my many rarepairs! I've had the idea for 'field chasers' – mechs who are groupies for other mechs' fields, and seek them out to experience them - for a couple years. I wanted this fic to be more meaningful, but I just don't have the energy right now. Maybe in the future, though, I'll expand on this idea/pairing! For now, please enjoy this smol collection of wip-y PWPs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Edit:** I've edited chapter 1 to be longer and better. I'm going to try to make this a full-length fic in the future =) Chapters 2 & 3 are going to look very WIPy in comparison.

“Password?”

“Uh...” Bluestreak checked the latest message he'd gotten from Whirl. _“Tailgate's punchable face.”_

There was a pause. 

Bluestreak rocked back on his heels, looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one was watching. He was in the belly of the ship, where the walls curved funny and the lights didn't always work right. The engine room hummed from across the hall. He could just sense the exotic energy of the Lost Light's quills on his plating.

The door, a chunk of the wall carefully cut along preexisting seams, clicked and pulled inwards. 

“Hurry up,” came the gruff voice.

Bluestreak scooted in. Aquafend, holding the chunk of wall by a handle soldered to the inside, hefted it back into place.

Bluestreak grinned and fanned his doorwings out in excitement. The air was hot and loud with the clang of metal on metal, shouts and taunts, and thick with fields and the smell of blood. Bluestreak loved it. “I didn't miss the firetruck round, did I?”

Aquafend smirked, taking in his bouncing doorwings and loose chest plating. “Nope.”

Bluestreak scanned the crowd. All the usual mechs were here, save a new one. In the back Riptide looked lost.

“What's he doing here?” asked Bluestreak.

“Whirl invited him. There's only two big boats on the ship and he's the other one. Gotta have a real fight.”

“He's gonna get his aft kicked from here to Luna 1,” said Bluestreak.

Aquafend laughed. The three lights on his helm blinked in sequence. “It'll be a good show.”

Bluestreak's grin widened and he elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. Mechs were shouting taunts and bets. The arena floor was gouged and crossed with paint marks and energon of every color. Some of the crowd in the front were spattered with blood already. Whirl was off to the side, gesturing to Riptide. Probably explaining the rules of the fight. Riptide looked confused. Jackpot was in his usual spot, shanix flowing out of the satchels at his waist, ground littered with receipts and tickets. He spotted Bluestreak and his visor flashed with a wink.

A green and a red helicopter circled each other in the arena, fists raised. It was Frame Night, where fighters were paired based on their alt modes. All fights happened in robot mode, but any and all modifications were allowed, as well as unique appendages from alt modes. The red helicopter pulled his own rotor out and wailed on his opponent's head with it. The crowd laughed.

Bluestreak laughed along, trying to ignore his own impatience. This was the night he'd been waiting for. He glanced around for the field chasers. There was always a spot where they gathered in the front- there. Bluestreak pushed and shoved his way over. He was greeted with a few nods and slaps to the shoulders. The field chasers were leaning close to one another. The gossipy sort. Bluestreak caught snatches of their conversations.

“-never felt a boat before. Wonder what that'll be like-”

“-you get a visit from Getaway this morning?”

“My shanix are on the green guy.”

“-anyone got a rewire patch? Siren busted my freaking audial-”

“-you felt Ultra Magnus? _Ew.”_

“I know, I know, but his field is _super_ weird. It's like, smaller on the inside than the outside?”

The group was mostly car-sized grounders. Not minibots, they weren't allowed in after the last two had been squashed. But other vehicles like Bluestreak and the occasional small plane or watercraft. They all tended to have thinner frames, not the thick plating of a tank or a bomber. And they all had something else in common, too: the field-sensing circuitry in their chests bunched closer to the seams than usual.

“Hey, Bluestreak,” said First Aid. His chest plating was loose. He'd painted the edges of his seams with chrome. Supposedly that helped channel field energy into the frame. Bluestreak didn't believe it.

“Hey,” he said.

“Glad you could make it.” First Aid's visor flashed as one of the rotary bots went down. “Ouch. Probably gonna see him in the med bay tomorrow.”

“Heh.”

“You waiting for the big boys?”

“You know it.”

Bluestreak shifted from foot to foot, waiting for the helicopters to finish their fight. The green one won. One of the field chasers ran out into the makeshift arena and grabbed the helicopter's arm. The victor's plating rustled, little sizzles of energy from the battle running through his lines. The field chaser swooned and led him out of the arena.

The loser picked himself up and slumped off.

First Aid tilted his head, mulling over the red helicopter. “Screw it,” he said. He chased after the loser. 

Bluestreak chuckled to himself. First Aid couldn't resist a helicopter. Even a loser. Whatever. They'd have fun tonight.

“Next up, heavy weight class,” yelled Blaster. He and Siren had both claimed the job of fight announcer. They took turns. “Firetruck!” 

“Yesssss!” Bluestreak balled his fists and shouted with the rest of the crowd.

On the far side, the crowd parted, and Inferno strode through, grinning and waving.

“Ooo, he looks good,” said the mech next to Bluestreak. His wheels spun. Bluestreak thought his name was Slapdash.

“Yeah,” said Bluestreak. “He's alright.”

Inferno strolled along the edge of the crowd, posing and pushing his plating out. His signature white wings had been sprayed with holographic paint and they glittered. He paused at the group of field chasers, grinning at them all. He caught Bluestreak's eye and arched an optical ridge at him. He flared out his field. It was strong and tangy with self-assurance. It flowed over the field chasers. They gasped, bunching around him and parting their chest plating to feel his field dance along their circuits. But Bluestreak merely gave him a half smile and a shrug. A flash of surprise went across Inferno's face- he'd expected Bluestreak to throw himself at him like the others. Inferno turned away and headed further down the crowd.

“What the hell?” Slapdash smacked Bluestreak's arm. “Mech, he was inviting you! _Before_ the match!”

“I know,” said Bluestreak. “But he's not the one I want.”

Slapdash scoffed.

While Inferno spun his ladder for the crowd, the mech of Bluestreak's interest finally pushed his way through on the other side. Bluestreak's face lit up and his doorwings bounced.

Hot Spot stepped into the arena and raised his arms and _laughed_, laughed like the crowd had just told him the funniest joke he'd ever heard and he would soon be wiping tears from his eyes. It wasn't a mean laugh, it was jolly and deep and _genuine._

It was the most genuine thing Bluestreak had ever heard. And that quality, that _gentleness,_ was what had drawn him to the mech. In a ship hurdling through space packed full of angst-ridden weirdos, the deep pool of Hot Spot's calm and kindness stood out. Bluestreak had thought it was an act at first, had found himself sitting near the big mech at meal times, or following behind him through the hallways when they crossed paths. He'd strained his sensors trying to get a grip on Hot Spot's field without loosening his chest panels in public. 

And as far as he could tell, the big mech's gentleness was entirely genuine. 

And that realization ratcheted his fantasies up even more. He'd been daydreaming about that field for weeks, how strong it would be, how it'd wash right _through_ him, under his plating, through his lines, along his circuitry... And now he finally had a way to approach Hot Spot about it in the appropriate venue. Everyone knew what the cluster of mechs with their chests cracked open at Whirl's Punching Things Club were about.

Hot Spot's laughter faded and his biolights flashed with a grin. He gave the crowd a simple pose, shoulders back, hands on hips, chin raised, his smile still evident in his eyes. 

“Hnnn...” Bluestreak's doorwings fluttered. He couldn't stop himself. It wasn't just the field he'd fantasized about. Hot Spot was so _big_. The blue color of his plating looked good even in the nasty yellow light of the fighting arena. He'd touched up the silver on his chest and shoulders and it stood out nicely against the rich red paint there. His thighs and biceps were black- Bluestreak couldn't resist a mech with black thighs- and his eyes were red. That was usually a turn-off on an Autobot, but Bluestreak could overlook it. 

“Hmph,” said Slapdash. “You know what they say about Autobots with red eyes.”

Bluestreak did know. “I don't think it's true for him.”

“We'll see,” said Slapdash.

Hot Spot didn't walk along the crowd or flare his field for the chasers. He met Inferno in the center of the arena and they shook hands. Then they stepped back a few paces, raised their fists, and waited for Siren's “FIGHT!!”

Inferno lowered his stance and charged with a yell. Hot Spot hesitated, then stepped aside and grabbed the other mech as he ran past. He used Inferno's own momentum to whirl him around and slam him into the floor.

Inferno huffed and sprang up, a long scratch dug into the paint of his front. He snarled and swung. Hot Spot brought up his forearms, blocking the blows. Inferno pummeled him, forcing him backwards. Mechs in the crowd scattered as they neared. Hot Spot ducked and extended his ladder, smashing Inferno in the face. 

Inferno fell back. The crowd roared.

Inferno shook his head and kicked Hot Spot's legs out from under him. Hot Spot fell to his knees. Inferno transformed his right hand into a nozzle and jammed it into Hot Spot's shoulder, where the wheels met the metal. A plume of fire retardant billowed out. The crowd nearby coughed and vented as it settled over them. Hot Spot's arms went slack, his biolights flashing with pain. White powder, forced through his body, spilled out from seams in his torso and waist. Inferno kicked him down.

“Boo!” Bluestreak yelled as a grinning Inferno waved at the audience. “Get up, Hot Spot!”

The impact with the floor jarred Hot Spot from his momentary freeze. He rolled and got to his feet. He pulled a length of fire hose from his torso, measured out a loop of it, aimed, and threw.

Inferno's grin vanished as the fire hose looped around his neck. Hot Spot yanked. Inferno jerked backwards, clawing at his neck. Hot Spot reined him closer, steam and powder rising from his frame.

Just as he got within grabbing range, Inferno extended his ladder, slamming Hot Spot back. The length of fire hose slackened. Inferno growled, venting hard. He turned around swinging. Hot Spot blocked the first punch but not the second. He staggered into the crowd. They pushed him back into the arena. He leapt to the side as Inferno came at him again, ladder extended.

Inferno spun, snarling, heat rising from his vents. He was close to the group of field chasers. They pressed forward to feel his field- focused, hot, _angry._

Hot Spot bent his knees and swung his ladder out as Inferno charged again. They met in a clash, their arms and ladders tangling. Inferno grit his teeth and pushed. Hot Spot pushed back. The horrific sound of bending metal shrieked through the crowd's audials. Bluestreak grimaced.

Inferno's ladder snapped. Blood spattered the crowd. Inferno cried out and fell forward, off-balance by the sudden loss of a major limb. Hot Spot's eyes widened and he instinctively reached out to catch the falling mech. Inferno laughed bitterly as Hot Spot caught him, then punched him square in the face plate.

Hot Spot reared back with a groan.

Half the crowd shouted approval and the other half booed. It was a dirty move. Dirty moves were allowed... but _that_ was dirty indeed.

“You don't deserve those angel wings!” shouted Bluestreak. Some of the crowd laughed at that. Inferno shook his head, throwing his shoulders back, spinning the broken half of his ladder. Blood sprayed over the crowd. Inferno reached back to pinch his wounds closed. Half the crowd shouted for his attention. He looked up.

Hot Spot had launched himself off the ground by extending his ladder and was coming down at high speed, elbow-first. Inferno tried to spin out of the way but he was just too late. Hot Spot smashed into him. The crowd nearby staggered back with their impact. The Lost Light's floor was permanently scarred.

Both mechs offlined from the force of the fall, their optics winking out.

“And! ... They're! ...both down,” said Blaster, failing to keep the disappointment from his tone. “Whoever wakes up first wins.”

The crowd quieted, pressing forward to see who would rise first.

Inferno groaned.

“Stay down!” yelled Bluestreak. His voice was overrun by the crowd chanting the opposite.

Inferno's optics blinked on and he sat up shakily, looking around like he didn't know where he was. His angel wings were bent inward and his biolights blinked with pain. A moment later, Hot Spot onlined. 

“Annnnnnd Inferno's the winner!”

“Boo!” yelled Bluestreak. But he was drowned out by the crowd.

Three field chasers swarmed Inferno, pulling his arms and legs, pushing him up, flaring their chest plating, trying to get a glimpse of his struggling field. One of them held out the part of his ladder that had broken off. Still confused, Inferno uncertainly crushed them all to himself in a hug.

Bluestreak bit his lower lip. Should he wait for Hot Spot to get up? Would he embarrass him by approaching while he was still in the arena?

Hot Spot groaned and pushed himself up to standing. His frame was, surprisingly, neither broken nor scuffed. He laughed and waved to Inferno, his red eyes light, his field easy. He collapsed his ladder properly, spun his wheels, and shook out his limbs.

“Get out of the arena, loser!” shouted someone in the crowd.

Hot Spot just shook his head and walked away.

Bluestreak swallowed and took off after him. “Hey! Wait!”

Hot Spot didn't seem to hear him. The crowd parted for him and he headed for the door.

“Hey! Wait!”

Hot Spot nodded to Aquafend. He unlatched the door.

_“Hey!”_

Aquafend motioned at Bluestreak. Hot Spot turned around. “Hmm?”

“You!” Bluestreak skidded to a stop beside him. His eyes widened. Hot Spot was bigger close up than he'd thought. His plating twitched.

“Yes?”

“Uh.” Bluestreak shivered. The firetruck's voice was so deep and friendly, it shuddered through his frame. He pushed away the thought of what it would sound like when whispering. He struck a pose, chest out, hips cocked, doorwings up, and smiled.

Hot Spot stared at him.

“Uh.” Bluestreak's excitement faltered. He'd never had to explain this part of the field chaser thing before. All the fighter mechs knew what was up when you posed like that. He gestured to himself. “Uh?”

Hot Spot's red eyes didn't leave him. He tilted his head. “You know I lost, right?”

“Yeah! But it wasn't a fair fight. Inferno fought dirty.”

“Hey, you two,” said Aquafend. He gripped the door handle, shoulders shaking with its weight. “Either get out or get away from the door. I have better things to do than wait for you.”

Hot Spot headed through the door. Bluestreak followed.

The hallway was shockingly quiet in comparison to the fight room. The bots reset their optics, adjusting to the cool, blue light. Hot Spot's plating was wet with condensation, his frame still hot from the fight. His vents were open as wide as possible, blasting warm air. And his field...

Bluestreak's chest plating flared. 

Hot Spot glanced at Bluestreak's chest. He blinked at the social faux pa and looked away. The undercurrent of energy in his field was replaced by an embarrassed awkwardness. He pulled his field in.

“Aww-”

“I don't know what you want,” said Hot Spot. He took a deep breath and vented it forcefully, blasting the remnants of the white powder out. It caught in the air currents and drifted. “I didn't win.” He shrugged and started down the hallway.

“Wait-” Bluestreak pumped his legs to keep up with the bigger mech. “I don't care about that. I came tonight to see _you.”_

Hot Spot's optical arches went up, but he kept walking.

“I- I don't really know how to explain it, if you don't already know how it works,” babbled Bluestreak, “but I came to see you. I don't care if you lost. I'd like to, uh, if you wanted to, um-”

Hot Spot turned to him. His frame was at ease, his field tucked in politely. He radiated a gentle friendliness that made Bluestreak bury his face in his hands.

“Primus, help me,” said Bluestreak, muffled. He dragged his hands down his face. “What I'm trying to say is, uh, if you'd like my company tonight... I'd really like yours.”

The big mech's eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yeah.” Bluestreak fluttered his doorwings, wondering if Hot Spot knew how to read his body language. _Sensual invitation._

Hot Spot's eyes flickered to the doorwings and back to Bluestreak's earnest face. 

For a long moment, he stood very still.

Bluestreak sighed inwardly. Apparently Hot Spot didn't get what he was saying, and he didn't know how to say it in a way that wouldn't scare the mech away, as Bluestreak was beginning to think Hot Spot had _no_ idea how Whirl's Punching Things Club actually worked-

“Why? Why _me?”_

The simple question threw Bluestreak completely off guard. “It's, uh, it's like this thing, you know, where-”

“Let me guess. You want me to choke you with my fire hose, right?”

_“What?”_

Hot Spot narrowed his eyes suspiciously. 

“No! Nothing like that!” Bluestreak floundered inwardly. This was his one chance to hook up with the field of his dreams. He couldn't screw it up! Bluestreak fluttered his doorwings again. “I swear, just- just you and me- and, and, no hoses, I definitely am not into hoses, and- we can do whatever you want, and-”

“Whatever _I_ want?”

“Yeah!” _Whatever it takes to make that field sing._

Hot Spot extended his arm and very gently touched one of Bluestreak's doorwings with the tip of his finger.

Bluestreak inhaled sharply. He tilted his doorwing towards Hot Spot.

Hot Spot ran his finger along the length of it, then down the side, and back again along a seam. Bluestreak shivered.

“Do you like that?” asked Hot Spot.

“Oh, yes,” said Bluestreak. He took a step closer. Hot Spot's frame was warm. The suspicion from earlier faded to curiosity.

Hot Spot traced his fingertip along the top of that doorwing, across Bluestreak's back, and along the top of the other doorwing. Bluestreak shivered again. He couldn't help the moan that escaped his throat. He stared at Hot Spot, feeling at once both pathetic and melty. 

The bigger mech's engine rumbled. He smiled with his eyes. His field edged out again, bright with intrigue, and Bluestreak's chest plating strained open, begging for more.

~~

Bluestreak wasn't sure how they'd made it to Hot Spot's room, but he threw himself on the berth without any prompting. Hot Spot had been silent their entire trek there, just glancing at him every once in a while, gently touching his shoulders or his doorwings like he'd never seen either before.

Now Hot Spot was kneeling by the bed, bunching the sheets in his hands, looking at Bluestreak expectantly. Bluestreak propped himself up on one elbow. He winked. Hot Spot slowly laid his hand on Bluestreak's side. It was huge and warm. He stroked his thumb across Bluestreak's belly, making clicking sounds beneath his face mask.

Bluestreak's frame warmed. He beaconed the bigger mech closer. Hot Spot leaned forward. “What's under the mask?”

Hot Spot sighed and transformed the mask aside. 

He had a grindform mouth. The circular structure had serrated whirring plates and supports radiating out to the mech's cheek guards. Bluestreak had been hoping for a full mouth, but he pushed his disappointment away quickly so Hot Spot wouldn't feel it.

But perhaps he had not been quick enough. Hot Spot's field took on a sad tinge.

_Oh no,_ thought Bluestreak. _Sadness is the opposite of tonight's goals._ “Can I kiss you?” he asked quickly. “Without it hurting?”

Hot Spot leaned closer. The circular rings of grinding plates in his mouth slowed their spinning. As Bluestreak watched, their serrated edges tilted backwards. The rings flattened back against each other, like scales. Bluestreak pressed his lips to the outside of the grindform mouth. The metal was smooth, no patches or scratches, like mouths beneath masks tended to be.

Hot Spot groaned. It was a real groan, deep and lustful, the first physical sign he'd made of actual interest. His field echoed the feeling and Bluestreak's chest sizzled with it. _That's more like it,_ he thought. _I want more of that._ Slowly, experimentally, Bluestreak licked inside the grindform mouth.

Hot Spot's hand on his waist gripped him harder.

Bluestreak smiled and slipped his tongue in further. It was strange- the slowly rotating plates inside Hot Spot's mouth spun around his tongue. If he curled his tongue backwards, he just caught their sharp edges. Not sharp enough to do any damage, just enough to make it interesting. Bluestreak gripped Hot Spot's chest for support and got to his knees on the bed. Hot Spot encircled his waist and pulled him closer. Bluestreak wrapped his arms around Hot Spot's neck and plunged his tongue in and out of the grindform mouth, licking the rotating plates, kissing the support structures.

“Mmm...” Hot Spot's hands slid around to grip the base of Bluestreak's doorwings. He squeezed gently, eliciting a moan.

Bluestreak pushed his tongue hard against the first rotating plate. Then, slowly, he pushed against the next one, keeping the pressure on. Hot Spot made a noise. Bluestreak pushed his tongue in as far as it could go, pushing against the third plate as hard as he could. Hot Spot's field hitched. 

“Ohh,” breathed Bluestreak, as the field energy hit his exposed circuits.

After a few more minutes of the most intense, one-sided kissing Bluestreak had ever had, he pulled back. “Just curious,” he said softly, “about what else that mouth can do.”

Hot Spot made an amused sound. “Not as much as yours.” 

“Can it get wider?” Bluestreak tilted his hips suggestively.

“No.” Hot Spot's field filled with regret. “I've tried. It doesn't.” He glanced away. “I can't tell you how much I wish I had a mouth like yours.”

Bluestreak didn't know what to say to that. He stroked Hot Spot's face. His fingers fit in the spaces between the support struts.

“But there is something I've always wanted to try,” said Hot Spot. The serrated plates in his mouth flicked outwards again and spun more quickly. “Don't put anything in there.”

Bluestreak's eyes widened. He snatched his hand back. “I won't.”

Hot Spot pulled him gently forward and touched his grindform mouth against Bluestreak's neck.

“Oh!” 

The whirring plates generated a vibration that shook Bluestreak's neck cables. It wasn't anything like a kiss. But he thought of where else Hot Spot could put that mouth of his and shivered.

Hot Spot moved down his chest, lingering his grindform mouth at the edges of Bluestreak's opened plating. The vibration shook his lines down to the core. Bluestreak swore his spark chamber was shaking. But he had no time to dwell on such a lascivious thought, because Hot Spot was pushing him gently back on the berth and spreading his thighs, moving that vibrating mouth achingly slowly down his torso. He paused at the junction of Bluestreak's torso and pelvic plating. He looked up, red eyes wide.

“Yeah,” whispered Bluestreak. “Keep going.”

Excitement flitted through Hot Spot's field. He pushed Bluestreak's hips down and lowered his face. He traced all the lines on Bluestreak's panels with his mouth- the functional seams and the decorative triangle etchings. He traced the seams of Bluestreak's thighs up to the inner workings of his hips. Gently, he touched the joints and cords there and the little biolights feeding into them.

Bluestreak gasped. His panels sprang open. 

Hot Spot's field flared with arousal. It danced along Bluestreak's lines, lighting up the exposed circuitry in his chest with little blue and white flickers of electricity. Hot Spot traced the biolights on the underside of his spike with a finger. Bluestreak groaned. Hot Spot placed his mouth on one side of Bluestreak's spike and his hand on the other and moved them in concert, up and down.

_“Ohh...”_ Bluestreak pushed against the hand still holding his hips down. He gripped Hot Spot's helm. A smile came through the big mech's field at that.

Hot Spot very, very carefully put the tip of Bluestreak's spike against his mouth and stroked. 

_“Oh!”_ Bluestreak's whole body shuddered. 

Hot Spot made a pleased sound. He moved his head further down. He placed his mouth right over Bluestreak's node. 

Bluestreak almost jumped straight up in the air. “Whoa! That's a little strong.”

Hot Spot sent an apology through his field and backed off, nuzzling the soft folds of Bluestreak's valve with his nose. He stroked his spike with thick fingers.

Bluestreak moaned and writhed beneath him.

There was a click.

The hand on his spike left and then Hot Spot was climbing back to face him again, his red eyes pinched with a gentle smile. Bluestreak felt the unmistakable heat and length of Hot Spot's spike move up the inside of his thigh.

“You ok?” asked Hot Spot.

“Yeah,” breathed Bluestreak. “Give it to me.”

Hot Spot chuckled, then angled himself and entered.

Bluestreak arched up on the berth. Hot Spot stretched him _out._ Hot Spot graced Bluestreak's chest with his unique kisses, then moved his hips in a slow rhythm. “Tell me if I need to stop.”

“Okay,” gasped Bluestreak. His spike rubbed against Hot Spot's abdominal plating as he moved. “Oh god, that's good.”

A smile came through Hot Spot's field. He pushed slowly, until his spike was buried deep. Then his red eyes flashed, his vents went hot and he sped up. Faster and harder, until Bluestreak's doorwings bunched up the sheets all around him and he was crying out in pleasure and gripping Hot Spot's sides, fingers scratching and transferring paint. Hot Spot's field burst with lust and Bluestreak drank it in. It lit up his lines, mixed with the hot signals coming from his array. 

Hot Spot moaned, a deep sound that reverberated through his chest and sent delicious coils through Bluestreak's frame. Hot Spot's chest plating cracked open and his field poured out. 

“Ah! _Yes!”_ Bluestreak shuddered as the field energy enveloped him. _This_ was what he wanted, what he'd fantasized about for weeks. Hot Spot's field was just as he imagined it, thick and powerful and _kind,_ no deep-down undercurrents of acerbic nastiness. It cascaded through Bluestreak, viscous with affection, blanking out every bad memory he'd ever had, replacing his emotions with a single pulse of pleasure.__

_ _Thick whips of electricity crackled across Hot Spot's plating. They jumped between the two mechs and Bluestreak's frame quickly charged. The pounding of his valve and the field lust and the electricity tore into his processor with a dizzying ferver. Bluestreak overloaded with a shout, jerking upwards one final time before falling back._ _

_ _Hot Spot's red eyes flashed. He continued thrusting, harder and faster, until he hit overload, too. He collapsed next to Bluestreak, his spike slowly pulling out, tugging at Bluestreak's valve walls gently. Hot Spot pulled Bluestreak close, resting his head up onto the tires of his bicep. Bluestreak awoke to Hot Spot stroking his chevron. Bluestreak kissed his wrist._ _

_ _“Was that good?” asked Hot Spot. His chest plating clicked back together politely, his lovely field mellowing out to a post-overload hum._ _

_ _“Extremely.”_ _

_ _A very pleased feeling came through Hot Spot's field. He pressed his face against Bluestreak's and gave a short buzz with his grindform mouth. A substitute peck on the cheek. Bluestreak smiled. _ _

_ _He wrapped his arms around the bigger bot, pressed into his warm frame, and nuzzled his chest. Hot Spot slowly stroked his doorwings until they fell into recharge._ _

_ _~~_ _

_ _Bluestreak woke with a start. He was curled against Hot Spot's chest, who was reading a data pad._ _

_ _“Good morning,” said Hot Spot._ _

_ _Bluestreak rubbed his eyes. “Oh, shit. Good morning. I shoulda sneaked out last night... sorry.”_ _

_ _Hot Spot tilted his head._ _

_ _“It's kinda, you know. You're not supposed to stick around after.” Bluestreak went to push himself from Hot Spot's chest._ _

_ _“You don't have to go if you don't want to,” said Hot Spot. He smiled with his eyes._ _

_ _“Oh. Okay.” Bluestreak could think of far worse ways to spend the morning than snuggled up against a big mech. Hot Spot's field was relaxed and peaceful. Bluestreak leaned into the feeling. It was nice. He dozed off._ _

_ _He woke again to gentle shaking._ _

_ _“Sorry,” said Hot Spot. “But I gotta get to my shift.”_ _

_ _“Oh.” Bluestreak stood. He stretched, trying not to look at Hot Spot's quarters. This was a one time thing. No need to see something interesting and comment on it._ _

_ _“Fuel up,” said Hot Spot. He handed Bluestreak a cube. It was liquid energon, with a disposable straw stuck to the side. _ _

_ _“Thanks.” Bluestreak stabbed the straw through the top and took a sip. It was the kind of mild drink one associated with morning meals._ _

_ _Hot Spot leaned down and kissed him, a little buzz between the chevrons. He smiled with his eyes._ _

_ _Bluestreak smiled back and followed him out._ _


	2. I Had A Dream I Had A Tongue

“I had a dream I had a tongue.”

Bluestreak almost missed the soft comment. He lay on Hot Spot's chest, processor happily drifting in and out as Hot Spot gently stroked his doorwings. “Wha?”

“I said, 'I had a dream I had a tongue,'” repeated Hot Spot. The gentle strokes faltered. His field pulled away.

Bluestreak opened one eye. He could guess where this was going. He wasn't sure what to say to delay Hot Spot's inevitable feelings of inadequacy. “Did you use it on me?”

“Yeah.”

“Mmm.” 

“I wish I had one,” said Hot Spot mournfully. “I wish I could make you feel good with it.”

Bluestreak took Hot Spot's face between his hands. “_You_ probably wish I had a deeper valve. Or bigger hands. Or longer legs.” He fluttered his doorwings. “Or double wings.”

Hot Spot's eyes widened. “Is that really a thing?”

Bluestreak gave him a smile. “What I mean is, sure, it'd be cool if you had a tongue. You could do all the things to me that I can do to you. But you don't, and you can't. But to be honest...” he kissed Hot Spot's mask. “I like you. As you are.”

Hot Spot's field crept out again, sheepish and embarrassed and, underneath it all, happy. The edges of his eyes flashed. He squeezed Bluestreak gently.

Bluestreak, who could read the quiet bot better after these few weeks together, took it as a _thank you_. 

“What better mouth to grind against, than a grindform mouth?” asked Bluestreak. He rolled his hips against Hot Spot's interface panels. “That mouth and your fingers... mmm.” Bluestreak flicked his thumbs across Hot Spot's mask. The mask transformed aside. 

Hot Spot slowed the grinding of his mouth plates. He smiled with his eyes and his field. 

Bluestreak kissed the outside of his mouth, tongued all the support struts and the secret places between them. Hot Spot's frame relaxed and he folded Bluestreak in his arms. “Hnn...”

“Mmm, it's good to hear you,” said Bluestreak, nestling into the bigger mech's embrace. “You're always quiet. Why is that?”

“During the war I had to be very loud,” said Hot Spot. The tips of his fingers parted and little cables snaked out. He ran his hands down Bluestreak's back, the little cables sinking into Bluestreak's seams and stimulating what lay beneath with pulses. “I prefer quiet now. Except...”

Bluestreak's vents came in hitching gasps. This was a surprise. Hot Spot hadn't done this before. He moaned, pressing himself into Hot Spot, grinding their panels together.

“...except the noises you make.” Hot Spot pressed his mouth to Bluestreak's forehead with a buzz, a little kiss.

“Hnnn... ohhhh...” Bluestreak's eyes flashed as a small current ran through his frame. “Oh! Oh. What- what is that?”

Hot Spot smiled through his field and said nothing. He crept his fingers up Bluestreak's back and teased the seams of his doorwings. Bluestreak let out a pleasured yelp. 

“Delicate,” said Hot Spot softly. He leaned forward to tickle the doorwings. Bluestreak's face pressed into his neck.

“Mmm... oh!” Bluestreak gripped Hot Spot as waves of _something_ went through him. He wasn't sure what it was. Some kind of medic pulse? It didn't feel like somatic energon or a modified weapon pulse. Whatever it was, it radiated pleasure wherever Hot Spot's fingers wandered. Bluestreak kissed the cables of Hot Spot's neck. Hot Spot made a little sound, like it tickled, and wiggled away. Bluestreak darted his tongue between the cables, kissed them, followed them up to Hot Spot's face, and with a groan, slipped his tongue into Hot Spot's grindform mouth.

Hot Spot's frame stiffened. His vents came hot and Bluestreak could feel his spark turn in his chest. His biolights slowed, his field thickened. Bluestreak pressed his tongue against the rotating plates, in all the spots he knew would turn the big mech to molten metal.

“Hnn...” Hot Spot's hands moved to Bluestreak's waist. His little sparking cables slipped between Bluestreak's hips and thighs, pulsing that delightful energy there. Bluestreak shuddered, wrapped his arms around Hot Spot's neck, and opened his interface panels.

“Please tell me you're gonna put your fingers in my valve.”

His only response was a burst of pure lust coming from Hot Spot's field, and then those lovely sparking fingers stroked his nodes, his folds, pushing gently inside him.

“Oh!”

Bluestreak abandoned all pretenses of subtlety and rode those fingers, squirming and crying out with pleasure. Hot Spot's field smiled all around him. He held the smaller mech in his hands, a happy hum coming through his chest. Bluestreak gripped his shoulders, grinding down as hard as he could.

There was a click.

Just as Bluestreak registered it, the fingers disappeared. He whimpered, looking up at Hot Spot. The bigger mech's red eyes were friendly and kind. Bluestreak kissed his mouth.

“Can I?” asked Hot Spot.

Bluestreak looked down. Hot Spot's spike, blue with lighter blue accents and red biolights, rested between his thighs. The big mech's demeanor was calm and gentle, but his frame shook, his field emitted little bursts of lust, and his voice was strained.

Bluestreak grinned. He reached down and gripped that spike, ran his hand along it, feeling all the lovely little details of its plating, squeezing as he went. Hot Spot made an amazing sound at that, thrust his hips forward. Bluestreak looked him in the eyes. “Not yet.”

Wordless questioning came through Hot Spot's field, and then the big mech _gasped_ as Bluestreak wrapped his lips around his spike. He licked it, kissing the tip tenderly, then licked all the biolights while stroking.

Bluestreak smiled to himself as Hot Spot's black thighs quivered. He spared a kiss for each of them, tonguing the seams, before returning his attention to that thick spike.

“Oh... tongue...” Hot Spot's field became a complex mix of pleasure/lust/jealousy/sadness.

“It's okay,” said Bluestreak. “Just enjoy it.”

“I'm sorry,” said Hot Spot. He gripped the bed. “I want to do that for you. I can't- oh! _Oh._ But I _can't-”_

Bluestreak took the spike as deeply as he could, licking and stroking. Hot Spot's hips moved and his plating sparked, but his field betrayed his unease. “It's okay,” whispered Bluestreak. He kissed the underside of the spike. “Trust me. It's okay.”

The undercurrent of sadness remained in Hot Spot's field.

Bluestreak sighed. He climbed up onto Hot Spot's lap. He kissed his grindform mouth. “What am I gonna do with you?” 

“Keep me,” said Hot Spot sadly.

“Of course.” Bluestreak took his hands, watching the little sparking cables in his fingers. “How can we deal with this? How can I make you feel better? You don't have a tongue. That's the way it is. It doesn't bother me. But it bothers you.”

Hot Spot looked away.

“Come on,” said Bluestreak gently. He turned Hot Spot's face back and kissed his nose. Like most grindform mouthed mechs, his nose was a simple triangular prism. It lacked the planes and refined shape Bluestreak's had. Bluestreak liked it. “Talk to me.”

Hot Spot sighed. His panels clicked together and his field grew heavy. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. But you gotta... we gotta figure this out. It's okay that we're different. Alright?”

“I know, but...”

“Yeah?”

Hot Spot pressed closer. “I get a lot of pleasure out of pleasuring you. I feel like I can't do a good job... I can't make you happy the way I want to.”

_Ahh, so that's what it is._ “That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me,” said Bluestreak. 

Hot Spot's field smiled.

“You're very... you're very _kind._ It shows through your field. It comes through in the way you treat mechs.”

Hot Spot tilted his head. “It's never been a desirable trait... often seen as a weakness.”

“Nah,” said Bluestreak. “It's what drew you to me. It stands out.” He sighed happily. “It's so _refreshing.”_

Hot Spot's plating shifted with discomfort. “I'd trade it for a tongue. I'd trade it to make you happy the way I dream about, the way I want to.”

Bluestreak kissed his jaw. “But what about the fact that you make me happy the way _I_ want you to?”

Hot Spot blinked.

“You've never given me any reason to complain.” Bluestreak grinned at him. “I keep coming back, don't I?”

“You do...” said Hot Spot. His eyes brightened as he internalized the statement.

“But... I get it. I do,” said Bluestreak. “I mean, not exactly like you do. But there are things I've always wanted that I didn't come to be with, you know?”

Hot Spot nodded.

“If it... if it really bothers you that much, maybe we could... look into getting something. A toy. A tool. Something you could use on me. Would that help?”

A sheepish smile came through Hot Spot's field. He reset his vocalizer. “Yeah.”

“I could get something, too. I know I don't fill you up the way you fill me. Maybe I can find something to help with that.”

“Ohh...” Hot Spot's eyes got a far-away look. He blinked. “I would like that.” He pressed his mouth against Bluestreak's cheek. “But I didn't... I never... I never thought you were less, because of that. I like you very much.”

“You silly thing,” said Bluestreak with a laugh. “That's how I think of you, too!”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

A flood of relief came through Hot Spot's field. He squeezed Bluestreak tight. “I'm so glad,” he said. He gave Bluestreak a buzzing kiss. “So glad.”

Bluestreak smiled. Then he wiggled his hips. “Sooo... can we continue now?”

Hot Spot's field thickened. He pressed Bluestreak closer and whispered. “Yes.”

And soon enough, Bluestreak was gripping Hot Spot's ladder, head thrown back, shouting with pleasure, Hot Spot's grindform mouth buzzing between his thighs.

~~


	3. The Glove

“I feel ridiculous.”

Hot Spot hid his face behind one hand. He held the other hand at an arm's length from his body. It was enveloped in what one could generously call a glove. Silver. Lingual.

“Ohhh my god,” said Bluestreak. “Oh my god.” He grabbed Hot Spot's gloved hand. “That's amazing. No wonder Blaster was snickering at me when I picked up the package from the subspace transporter.”

Hot Spot moaned, but not in the good way. In the whiny, embarrassed way.

“I love it,” declared Bluestreak.

_It_ was a glove, each finger a silicone tongue, the palm a series of ridges and bumps. Hot Spot touched his thumb and forefinger together.

“That's obscene,” Hot Spot said. “It's the most obscene thing I've ever seen.”

“It's like a valve made of tongues,” said Bluestreak. “I want it.” Without any pretense, he dropped the panel to his spike. He stroked himself and gave Hot Spot a lusty look. Hot Spot didn't see it.

“It came with instructions,” said Hot Spot. “There was a booklet included.”

“We don't need _instructions,”_ said Bluestreak, rolling his eyes. “Just go with it.”

“It says if I implement the following protocol, it can draw warmth from my lines.”

“It's self-heating?!”

“After enough uses it'll start to mold to my hand.” Hot Spot regarded the scandalous thing. “Ugh. What if it never comes off?!”

“Oh, c'mon.” Bluestreak pumped his pressurized spike. “Put it on me!”

“I'm still reading the directions-”

With an impatient noise, Bluestreak grabbed Hot Spot's gloved hand and shoved his spike into it. “Squeeze for m- OH. Oh god.” His knees went weak. He jerked his hips. “Oh my god. It's so much better than a tongue.”

A sheepish smile came through Hot Spot's field. He stroked Bluestreak's spike, savoring the sounds the smaller mech made. Bluestreak collapsed back onto the berth and threw his legs wide open. “Don't stop!” The panel to his valve fell open. “Nnnh!”

“Huh. Too bad I don't have two.” Hot Spot hooked his thumb into Bluestreak's valve, his hand so big he was able to keep up stroking the spike. Bluestreak arched off the bed. He gripped the sheets and moaned.

Hot Spot transformed his face mask away and pushed his grindform mouth against his gloved hand. Bluestreak's frame jerked as the vibrations hit him. His vocalizer crackled with static and his field blitzed out with lust. Hot Spot savored it, wondering what he had ever done to deserve his exquisite partner.

~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of internalized prejudice/feelings of inadequacy due to a mech's frame is very interesting to me (because, of course, humans have the equivalent). Not having a full mouth would probably be pretty high up there, imho, in terms of attributes that TF society would find unappealing. An expanded version of this fic would address that more, via Hot Spot's unhappiness with his “non-standard” frame. It'd also explore the reason Bluestreak seeks out powerful (pain-numbing) fields. And how they found acceptance in each other :>


End file.
